


Gone Fishin'

by whipplefilter (kalliel)



Category: Cars (Movies), Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Bob Cutlass - Freeform, Cruz Ramirez - Freeform, Danny Swervez's Crew Chief, Gale Beaufort - Freeform, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Movie: Cars 3, RSN Legal, Sally Carrera - Freeform, it's not an empty cup; it's a multi-billion dollar industry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 04:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13182291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/whipplefilter
Summary: The racing world knows how to valorize. But it does not know how to mourn. Not when the Hudson Hornet passed, and not now, either.Like Lightning, Storm learns this the hard way.





	1. Lightning McQueen, #51 Crew Chief

When the racers turn toward the tracks and IGNTR's crew chief stand stays empty, Lighting knows something's gotta be up.

Danny's crew chief, a Camaro whose name Lightning can't remember, shrugs it off. "Maybe he got suspended for an infraction last week."

"An infraction? Gus?" Lightning snorts. "No one on that team would ever slip up like that."

"Uh, his name's Ray," says the Camaro. "And everyone slips up."

Lightning frowns. He's positive he's heard Storm call him Gus. But since he can't for the life of him remember _this_ guy's name, he supposes he's in no position to object. "If there'd been a suspension for the 20 team, we'd have heard about it," Lightning presses. "I mean, if you've ever been yelled at by G-- by Ray, you'd know he's always 100% by the b--"

"You've gotten yelled at… by someone else's crew chief?" asks the Camaro, eyes slit judgmentally. 

"I mean, I guess he didn't yell," Lightning allows. "But he wasn't impressed."

Yes. Yes, Ray's forcefully told him how to avoid a suspension a few times. _51 needs you,_ he'd said. _Don't mess this up for her._

Lightning reminds himself to stop talking. He still hasn't gotten used to life at the bottom of the pyramid. Apparently, he's yet to earn this Camaro's respect. (Which is fine, he figures. Whatever. The next few tracks on the schedule are infamously challenging, and Lightning knows them better than anyone around. Let's see what this Camaro thinks of him in three weeks.)

For now, Lightning shuts up. But when the green flag drops, Lightning's gaze flicks back to the empty stand.

Something's up.


	2. Cam Shaftley, #19 Crew Chief

It's his Danny in the winner's circle tonight. Long overdue, where Cam's concerned--Danny's never failed to impress on the dyno and he's probably the most strategic racer on the track. It's just been a matter of putting it all together.

Danny tries to play it cool the way the 20 always plays it cool, but there are tears at the corners of his eyes. They catch a thousand camera flashes. 27 consecutive Top 5 finishes. 11 second places. And finally, Danny's first bonafide win.

Cam's not the most excitable guy, but he's got a big dopey smile on his face and Danny knows he's proud of him--real freakin' proud. It should be a good, long night of well-deserved celebration. Keyword: Should be.

"Hey, where's Storm?" Danny asks him, after the winner's circle, after the press. He's looking around, eyes dancing over the emptying grandstands and pit row and even around the track, as though he expects Storm to have waited after all that--as though Storm would have waited to offer his personal congratulations.

Cam sighs. Here's the deal: Danny likes Storm. Or at least, he's in awe of Storm; he can't help it. 

Cam doesn't give a fig about Storm. 

(Cam doesn't like anyone, as Danny's pointed out. But he especially doesn't like Storm. And he knows that Storm doesn't wait. Not for no one.)

"Off moping, probably," says Cam. "20 probably thinks you're in _his_ spotlight."

"But it's just my first win," says Danny. He sounds a bit dejected--as though his win will mean less if it doesn't earn him that nod from Storm.

And see, Cam hates that. He hates seeing his boy feel that way. And it certainly doesn't soften his opinion of Storm. Storm breaks everything, and he doesn't even have to touch it.

"Yeah, it's your first win. Which makes you a threat," Cam says tightly. "Danny, sooner or later, you gotta stop trying to make friends with the 20. That's not what he's here for."

Of course, headed out of post-race inspection, they have a run-in with IGNTR's darling himself.

"Get lost," snaps Storm, without slowing. Danny has to swerve out of the way.

Gale is close behind. "This is-- not a good time," she apologizes, but she doesn't slow either. She's out of sorts, has a harried cant to her tires. But then, who wouldn't? Having to deal with her petulant little stormcloud all the time.

"Swervez," Cam starts, because Danny's gotta know he means business. This is a career move. This is a mental health move. Sometimes you have to cut the poison out. "Listen to me, Swervez. I need you focused. I catch you obsessing over the 20, or wasting your time with him at all, there'll be hell to pay at practice. You hear me? He's toxic. You can't afford that."

_Don't let him steal the wind from you._

Danny nods. He's playing it cool again. But there's a shudder in his spoiler and all Danny really wants to know is _Why? Why why?_

Cam sighs. "You don't need to impress him, Danny," he says. "You just need to beat him."

Storm nearly runs over 24's pittie on his way back to his trailer, and Cam's engine growls. He hates kids like that--don't know how good they have it, and treat respect for others like it's something that's gotta be bought and paid for.

Cam watches Gale and Storm get in a shouting match. And Gale--he's got nothing against her, but heaven help her, she lets him win it. Cam's just saying it wouldn't hurt to make the kid get a little dirt in his rims. Cars like Storm only think they're perfect because they've never been tested.


	3. Gale Beaufort, #20 Hauler

"Let's go," says Storm.

"Jackson, if you need someone to--" Gale starts.

" _Go,_ " Storm repeats.

And Gale goes. She goes for miles and miles, until Storm says stop, exit, turn left in 300 feet. He's reading directions off the Internet. He manages to sound authoritative and completely befuddled all at once. He's never personally driven on an off-ramp before.

They wind up on a dark highway with a neon sign glowing BBBQBKCB.

By the time they arrive, Ray Reverham has been dead for approximately twelve hours and forty-seven minutes.

"This isn't your fault. There isn't anything anyone could have done," Gale says, when she parks and Storm exits his trailer. He moves to help her unhitch--Ray's job. He doesn't know how to do it. "There's a lever," Gale supplies.

"Why would I think any of this was my fault?" Storm glowers at her. He can't find the lever.

"It wasn't," Gale reminds him again. "I just thought--you were supposed to check in with him this morning. I thought you might think--"

"Well, I didn't think that," says Storm. He finds the lever. There's a pneumatic hiss, then a clank. "Until just now."

He doesn't wait for her.

Gale bites her tongue.

Once she's got the trailer sorted, she joins Storm at a table, even though Gale's a liquitarian and she knows Storm doesn't want anything on the menu. He orders something anyway.

"Ray's favorite," he says.

Gale orders a Dinowine, because Gale won't drink and drive, even after just one glass, which means she and Storm will have to wait. They'll have to talk.

The TVs are playing footage from this afternoon's race, the World Series of Poker live, and an endless loop of Tank Coat infomercials. Gale can't say that seems like the best choice of advertising when you're in a dive like this. Her wine tastes like the box it came in.

"He likes the sauce," Storm says, when their waitress returns and suddenly there's a pile of burnt ends doused in Kansas City's finest. It's clear Storm does not like the sauce. He stares down the meal like there's something on the other side of it that he's daring to show itself.

"Jackson," Gale says. "About Ray."

"Liked," Storm self-corrects. "Fine. He _liked_ the sauce. You don't have to get pedantic about it." 

He continues to stare at the barbecue plate.

So he's not in denial, then. This isn't some kind of traumatic break, where Storm refuses to believe that Ray is dead, and they're forced to eat dinner with a ghost. Maybe this is just Storm's way of mourning: He stares at barbecue. Gale tells herself that this is a good thing. 

But see, Ray's dead. And that means there aren't good things.

"Jackson," Gale starts, because he's not giving her anything at all. She'd waited until after the race to pull him aside. The first thing he'd asked her was _How long have you been sitting on this?_ Then, immediately, _Did_ they _tell you to wait until after we were done here?_

When she tells him what's happened, Storm's first response is anger.

_"I wanted to tell you face to face," Gale explains, edging closer. She extends a tire, but Storm backs away. "And I didn't want that on the radio, where everyone could--"_

__

__

_"Well, they're going to," snaps Storm. "It's only a matter of time."_

Now Storm's not much of anything at all. He's still staring at the barbecue before him, cold now and congealing. But his expression is flinty enough to set it blaze again, turn it into a pyre. Beyond that, Gale can't begin to fathom where Storm's at with this. She can't tell what he needs, though what she wants most in the world right now is to give it to him.

She should ask Ray, she thinks, before logic has a chance to catch up to the impulse. Ray would know.

He would have known, she corrects. Somehow he always had, though if Storm had noticed something working he'd always gone out of his way to pretend it wasn't. Maybe it seems silly, but she'd found it endearing. But she just--she doesn't know how to do what Ray does. What Ray used to do. Storm doesn't pretend she can.

The news blares to life. Breaking announcement on the furthest TV. 

Maybe this, in the end, was what Storm's been waiting for all along. 

The poker and the infomercials continue, their worlds utterly undisrupted.

"We've just heard reports," says Shannon Spokes, gaze flitting between the camera and the techie idling next to her, whispering urgently. He's not camera-ready--wasn't supposed to be there. This segment wasn't supposed to be happening. "A few hours ago, a Blue Ridge tabloid reported--"

"IGNTR's now confirming--"

"Ray Reverham of the Piston Cup racing series--"

"He's the crew chief for the 20 team-- He was found--"


	4. Bob Cutlass, RSN Primetime

The news had broken late over the weekend, and most of the staff was still at the track for the post-race interviews. Bob was halfway home when the headline broke, and in his driveway by the time he saw it: Ray Reverham found dead in Kentucky hotel room. 

Bob's not often in this position, but he'd found himself reflexively refreshing hashtags, repeating his Google Searches, waiting for something to update, for the medical examiner's report to come out, for someone to make a statement. He'd put his children to bed with his eyes glued to the same article reiterated--flagrant copy-paste journalism as the news hit every racing website and sports media blog like a pack of jittery dominoes. 

It's been a long time since Bob's been in journalism in that first-to-press, on-the-ground sort of way, but usually when the big stuff breaks, he's ahead of the curve. He knows which teams are going to fold, whose rideslot won't be renewed. What chaos the new rules package will feed. These are the dramatic, pressing questions of the Piston Cup, and nine times out of ten, Bob is the first to know.

By this, he feels blindsided. And he can't shake the feeling that this wasn't supposed to happen.

Cars don't _die_ like that. Not young ones.

He does the math. Reverham's the same age he'd been when he and Lydia'd greeted Child #1. And that felt like some time ago, now.

He keeps refreshing, hoping for just one more clue. He's never Google Searched Ray Reverham in his life before. But he needs to know what happened. He needs to know why.

Bob, you need to go to sleep, counters Lydia.

RAY REVERHAM FOUND DEAD IN KENTUCKY HOTEL ROOM, Bob reads, one last time.

Four hours later, he's parked, awake, Lydia nestled against him and snoring softly. RAY REVERHAM FOUND DEAD IN KENTUCKY HOTEL ROOM.

No further details come to light until Tuesday, and Bob is not the one who writes RSN's take (of the many dozens of takes that immediately become available). But he reads it, and aside from Reverham's resume and his current employment with IGNTR, the one thing Bob now knows about Ray Reverham is he'd had a chronic oil pressure issue. Took additives for it--maybe had missed a dose. Maybe hadn't. It's not easy to tell. But something had clotted, and one night alone in a Kentucky hotel room, Ray Reverham had burned. By the time the cleaning service found him, his spark of life was gone, and he was metal.

It's a simple story. No scandal, no drama, no lunacy. All natural. That should make it better, but it doesn't. Cars aren't supposed to die like that--when all you'd need is a new filter, another tube.

It's not wholesome.

Bob watches his wife take her own fuel additives. Her family's always been predisposed to build-up. 

_What if?_

On Wednesday, he and Darrell interview Jackson Storm. The meeting had been on the schedule since Florida; it's not like they'd scheduled it because of Ray. Nothing like that. By contrast, they'd planned to discuss Storm's projections for the season, his rivalry with Cruz. His opinion of road courses. The usual.

They're not sure what they will ask Storm now, for the simple fact that cars don't die very often. Aside from the occasional extremely elderly donor or sponsor, the last unexpected death the Piston Cup had weathered had been Doc Hudson, and that was years ago now. Next closest was Lightning McQueen. (RSN's reporting strategy after the Hornet's passing: Valorize. For McQueen they'd planned for respectful kindness if didn't make it. Since he did, they'd gone with realism.)

But Ray Reverham is not the Hudson Hornet. 

How long can you sing the praises of a car you hardly know? And whom your viewers know even less?

"We're not going to sensationalize this," Bob decides, and Darrell agrees.

"No feelings. No asking for the juicy details," Darrell adds. "Cars always want that stuff. You know, cars who hang out in the hashtags and get all obsessive about some celebrity death, even though they never cared before. Cars like that."

"Cars like that," Bob echoes. His mind whispers, _Ray Reverham Found Dead in Kentucky Hotel Room, hashtag piston cup hashtag igntr hashtag blue ridge marriott_

But RSN will take the high ground. No trauma tourism. No rubbernecking. They'll just talk facts.

_hashtag lydia have you been to the mechanic lately? maybe we should all get checked out. you know, casual 16-point inspection. just because. look, here's a coupon._

"Now, we know you won't be down at Heartland until Thursday practice, but you've probably seen the viral photos going around, of the memorial growing on pit row. They say it's a lot of flowers," says Bob, after twenty minutes of normal interview and twenty minutes of moral crisis.

It seems stupid to pretend that Reverham's passing isn't on everyone's minds. It's stupid to act like nothing happened.

Darrell, generally encouraging of Bob taking an edgier stance now and again, gives him a look.

Storm's unfazed. "The flowers weren't my idea," he says.

Darrell tries to steer them back to racing--something he can yodel about, something that will make any sense at all when RSN's bombastic, high-energy jingle plays them out and the camera swoops high and mighty before cutting to commercial. "IGNTR hasn't announced a new crew chief for the 20 team. Can you tell us if you're in negotiations?" he asks, because RSN is not built for death. "Are you concerned about racing with a crew chief you haven't worked with before--or potentially no crew chief at all?"

Storm just says, "It's been done before."


	5. Cruz Ramirez, #51 Racer

Mr. McQueen's not used to hearing his name in the media this often any more, and whatever coping mechanism he'd used to tune the noise out before is well out of practice. Every time it happens, it throws his attention like a boomerang, and maybe it hadn't been such a great idea to come to "the biggest BBQ dump on the big Kansas City border"--or whatever the restaurant's eminently catchy acronym was supposed to stand for. BBBQBKCB's six TVs are blaring five racing channels (the other is golf), and they're all talking about Lightning McQueen.

Cruz waits for her mentor's attention span to cycle back around. He's trying. 

For a moment it looks like it's going to happen, but then RSN-3 makes mention of Storm following McQueen's example: He will race without a crew chief this weekend. Maybe for the rest of the season. It's a parallel the news has been drawing a lot lately--Doc and Mr. McQueen, Ray and Jackson Storm. It's the only way anyone seems to know how to talk about it.

 _Not that you can judge, Cruz_ , she reminds herself. She can't bring herself to call it anything but 'it.' She doesn't want to think about it. She just wants everyone to be okay.

"I wasn't setting an example," Mr. McQueen mutters, though maybe tonight he's more Lightning than Mr. McQueen. Just Lightning. "That's _not_ what I--"

"We could find someplace quieter," Cruz suggests, because their conversation derailed so long ago the debris was cleared from the tracks and several other trains had come and gone. Lightning hasn't found his way back to the station.

"Eat your brisket," says Lightning. "What were we talking about?"

"Storm," she says, and she almost loses him again--loses him to whatever was or was not an example he'd meant to set, whatever it had been like when Doc died, whatever that was now supposed to mean for Storm. She asks, "Do you think he's doing all right?"

"I think you can guess the answer, Cruz." 

"You know that's not what I meant. I just wanna make sure--"

"I don't--" Lightning breaks off. He's distracted again. "I don't know."

"Someone should check in on him," Cruz insists. She doesn't even like Storm, but--

"He doesn't even like you," Lightning says, pensive. He stays with the thought. "Maybe instead we should--" 

For a moment, his expression flickers from pensive to pained. "Maybe we just need to stay out of his way."

Cruz is pretty sure they're already in the way; the TV's making sure of that. They're so in the way Lightning's getting run over by anything that comes for Storm. Cruz finishes her brisket before Lightning ever registers there's a plate in front of him, and he seems so out of it Cruz doesn't even make a fuss about food waste when he slides it into the trash, untouched.

When they leave, the walls ring with the same rejoinders: _Lightning McQueen. Jackson Storm. Precedents set. Honor your crew chief? Ray Reverham found dead in Kentucky hotel room._

This wasn't supposed to happen.


	6. Gale, bearer of bad news

Storm handles everything. 

Well. He tries to.

"We should have a funeral," he says. 

They are, Gale tells him. His sisters are already making arrangements. 

"Then someone should get his house in order," says Storm.

His dirt track buddies are doing that. They're taking care of the fishing cabin, too, Gale tells him.

Storm makes a face--the same one he'd made when Gale had mentioned Ray's sisters. Storm hadn't known about the cabin, or the buddies, or the sisters.

"His old IndyCar team is writing an official obituary," Gale supplies, before Storm has the chance to ask. 

Storm frowns. "So what do we do, then."

"Slow down," Gale advises, which earns her another look. Storm looks like she just told him to drop dead. She tries to press it anyway. "You don't have to _do_ anything, Jackson. You just--"

"Do you want me to cry instead?" 

Gale bites her lip. Because on some level, yes. She does. She wants to pull him close and she wants to keep him there. She wants to be of help. "I want you to feel like you're allowed to express how you feel," she says.

Storm chuffs. "Sure. If I want it played on every television from now 'til--ever," he says.

"We can go somewhere private, if you want to talk," Gale says. "And the funeral's going to be private. Ray's sisters told IGNTR that they didn't want--"

"Are you that stupid?" Storm interjects. "There's no such thing as private."

"I can ask IndyCar if you can add a few lines in the obituary, if you want," Gale says tersely. She pulls her wheels in, so Storm knows he's overstepped. "Since you're his current racer." 

"Yeah, I used to be," Storm mutters. 

Then he adds, "I'm not gonna write anything. No way."

"You don't have to," says Gale. "I just thought you might want to. I talked to IGNTR, also. They said you could take some time out if you need it. Even though it's not in your contract."

"Wow, we forgot the dead crew chief clause?"

"Jackson."

"I don't need a timeout. I'll race. It's not like I have anything better to do."

"Jackson," Gale says again. He just seems so far away, and it's like--maybe his name will draw him closer. She says, "Jackson, they're his sisters. They're _family_. If you want to organize a separate memorial, maybe--"

"And who would I invite?" Storm asks her.

 

\--

 

"You're not stupid, Gale."

"Are you going to apologize for that?"

 

\--

 

"I wanna write the obituary."

"I needed to know that yesterday, hun. It's too late now. They've already sent it to press. Jackson, I'm sorry. 

"Jackson, wait--"


	7. Lightning McQueen, Doc Hudson's Ra-- no, the #51 Crew Chief (remember?)

The flowers overflow Storm's pit box, threaten to swallow Dinoco's like a runaway garden, but Lightning just pulls their rack of tires out of the way.

"All those flowers--they're a really nice gesture," Cruz says quietly. She's been trying not to look at them, Lightning can tell. They make her sad.

"It's a gesture," Lightning allows. The entire row nearest them still has its invoice stickers on the wrapping. They're from IGNTR. Gotta put on a show.

"Is something wrong?" Cruz asks him, and Lightning blinks. He tears his gaze away from the invoices in time to see her peer up at IGNTR's empty crew chief stand. Cruz swallows thickly. "I mean, aside from…"

"Hey, it's gonna be okay," Lightning assures her. "You're okay."

Cruz looks Lightning up and down. "That wasn't supposed to happen," she says. "We saw him at qualifying last week, he was fine, and he wasn't--" She takes a deep, urgent breath. "I'm okay," she says. "I just--really need to run this race."

Lightning smiles limply at her. "Yeah," he agrees.

Aside from the flowers, race day proceeds as normal. It's bombast and spectacle, celebration and release. It's escape. Or it's supposed to be. No one really talks to Storm, in the same way that they never really have. Some of the other racers stare at him, though. Ryan Laney. Ed Truncan. 

Lightning remembers being on the receiving end of those stares, when it had been Doc missing from the track. He nudges Cruz in the tire when he feels her gaze drifting Storm's way, too.

 _Don't,_ he whispers through his teeth.

The pre-race meeting is quiet. It had always been Ray who asked for the important rules clarifications, argued about interpretations, and brought up old precedents that any new proposal contradicted. He'd had a long memory for a sport he'd only spent a season in--at least, at the Cup level, in recent memory. Anyone who could have remembered him from before was long since gone. The King, maybe. Or Chick Hicks. Unlike Ray's, the Piston Cup's memory is short. With a few notable exceptions, it's all just a flash in the pan.

Lightning has seen all the Ray broadcasts, of course--the reels that are meant to be his legacy. By this point, everyone in the business had. Aside from the initial news, RSN put together a retrospective--short, but informative. Maybe a little bombastic, because that's the Cup's style. As a crew chief, Ray'd had one of the longest, most varied careers of anyone. Cup, Outlaws, Indy, Cup again. Rumor had it he'd even crew chiefed for speed boats once. That, RSN declared, should be honored. That should be his legacy.

Lightning has mixed feelings about legacies these days. Which--maybe, coming from him, that's stupid. He knows exactly how much of his life he's spent honoring Doc's, and he'd never change that. 

But when he thinks about that first year after Doc, where the Piston Cup had become the Hudson Hornet Piston Cup, where there'd been retrospectives on every channel, shoutouts and memorials everywhere he looked? He doesn't know how to feel about that anymore. He doesn't know how much money had exchanged trunks, or from whom, but he knew that getting Doc's name on that Cup had taken quite a bit. He knows that that season, the ratings were way up. And he knows that a lot of those cars were tuning in to see him. Because Lightning McQueen is one thing. Doc Hudson is another. But Doc Hudson's bereaved? 

No talent in the world can touch bare, morbid curiosity.

_Everyone wants to see you hurt._

Someone is shouting up at him in Italian. When Lightning looks up at the leaderboard, they're already 15 laps in. Because, you know. They're racing. It's 2017. There's no time to wander the past. 

"I was just wondering if you could tell how the high groove looks." Cruz's voice crackles over the headset. "But if you can't tell, that's... okay, too?"

Lightning swears. "Hang on--"

Both Treadless and Swervez pass her on the top.

"Are you okay up there?" Luigi asks from below.

"Laney's going for the bottom. Block him and let those two fight it out up there. We'll get it back," says Lightning.

"Lightning?" Luigi entreats.

"Watch the white line. They don't want you passing left of it on this track. Stay on it, though--stay on the line. Laney's tight--you'll lose him in the turn. Then it's just you and Storm down here," says Lightning.

" _Line,_ Cruz. Just focus on the line."

 

\--

 

Storm wins that race. Cruz takes second, and comes back to pit row in significantly brighter spirits than she'd been at start time. Endorphins can be miracle-workers. She doesn't even mind having lost to Storm, though he'd stolen it from her in the last five laps. Late caution (thanks, Truncan). Storm had the better restart.

"Storm looks happy," she says, a bit breathlessly. She's on top of the world, still vibrating with leftover energy, mind still running laps at pace. The hard past is another 500 miles behind them. "So that's a good sign!"

Storm's smiling, that's true. And he raced well. 

"Doesn't mean he's okay," says Lightning. "Doesn't mean anything, really."

"What do you mean?" Cruz asks. She's not thinking about Storm anymore. She's staring too hard at Lightning to be thinking about Storm.

"Nothing."

The press has Storm swaddled. Only a few are asking about the win. 

_Show us the pain. Show us how you hurt._

Meanwhile, the Cup's shooting off fireworks, begging, _By happy. Be strong. Set an example._

It's not coming from a mean place, Lightning struggles to remind himself. Death is a confusing thing. It's second-nature to stare. The press is trying to 'be there for him,' whatever that's supposed to mean. The racing world is, too. Sort of. Maybe.

"Jesus, give him some space maybe?" Bubba Wheelhouse suggests under his breath. Not that he approaches the press huddle with his suggestion. He and Ryan Laney skirt the throngs and try to get lost.

Lightning frowns. Not that that isn't exactly what he and Cruz were doing. But he remembers sitting alone in his trailer and not wanting to talk to anyone--but wishing desperately someone would come. Wishing desperately everyone else's lives wouldn't just continue on as normal, as though nothing had happened. Wishing that his would. He remembers wanting someone to fix all this, and hating anyone who tried. He remembers being alone.

He remembers the TV telling him that the racing world was all in this together. That Doc's passing touched everyone. He remembers how quickly his world had moved from pain to celebration--kindred spirits bonding over loss and, rather than stewing in their pain, celebrating what they'd used to have. What of course they'd always have, because honor is permanent and champions are forever and happiness will always outlast tears. Or so they said. Don't think about what the racing world has lost in the Hudson Hornet, they'd said. Think about what it had been given. No one wanted to think about pain. So, they figured: Celebrate!

He remembers writing a speech and smiling a lot.

 

\--

 

Lightning remembers thinking, very clearly, _But I'm in pain._


	8. Jackson Storm, no affiliation given

They're at the sisters' thing. That's what he's been calling it, much to Gale's chagrin. Not 'the' funeral. Not Ray's funeral. It's 'that sister thing.' You know. The shindig.

"You worked with him, right?" one of the sisters asks. She's writing place cards. Immediate family parks up front. Then close personal friends. 

Storm knows she's not really looking at him. Her mind is somewhere else. He's literally IGNTR's poster child; if it mattered to her who he was, or at least who he'd been to Ray, she'd have noticed on her own.

"I'll park in the back," he says. He means it as an explicit favor to her, but she doesn't seem that grateful.

She seems like her baby brother just died.

"I'm sorry for your loss," says Storm. When it leaves his lips, it sounds perfunctory. Storm's not sure if that's how he wanted to sound or not.

It's not like she's listening, anyway.

The back row is for rubberneckers. The cars who don't really deserve to be here. The ones adjacent Storm hadn't talked to Ray in twenty years, and one of them is only Ray's sister's neighbor. She'd never met Ray; just knew he missed his sister's wedding last year. He took some job and needed to be in Los Angeles. Start date non-negotiable. Rumor had it the racer he'd signed on for had been notoriously difficult to work with. Talented, though.

Maybe Storm should feel guilty about that. Being difficult, that is. Being difficult and keeping Ray from weddings and stuff. (Sometimes he genuinely does; he's just never figured out what to do with the feeling, except ignore it.) 

Today, though, it feels like triumph. Because _That's right. He chose me. He chose me over all of you._

And now he's gone.

Storm's engine misfires. He swallows thickly.

"And how did you know Ray?" asks the neighbor, turning to him. 

Funeral small talk jumps to the top of Storm's list of things he finds absolutely stupid.

"Better than you did," Storm replies.

 

\--

 

It's a long funeral. The first half is religious, and Storm knows none of the hymns. The second half is memories. Those aren't any more familiar.

"Anyone who knew Ray at all knows where I'm going with this," claims a Ford Explorer, brandishing a fishing pole. Laughter ripples through the crowd. 

Storm does not know where the Explorer's going with this.

"'Cause you know, most people talk about the weather, or work. The usual stuff. Not Ray. He'd come up to you the first time, and ask, 'Do you know how to fish?' You could be in the middle of Death Valley and there'd be Ray, asking about the fish!"

More laughter.

"And of course, Ray never actually learned how to fish. I mean, show of tires--who's ever ended up on a fishing trip with Ray before they figured out he didn't know the bait from the pole? I'm serious--get 'em up there!"

Storm looks around. Turns out Ray's been on an ungodly number of fishing trips.

"That's just who Ray was. Even put money down on that cabin--all right, folks, tires again; who's been to the cabin? yeah, I thought so--just so's he could take folks there. Have a little fun. Ray believed in taking time out for all the things you're bad at. If there's one thing Ray oughta be known for, it's that."

"He never did learn how to fish," adds the next speaker, to more laughter. "On account of always being too busy shooting the breeze with whoever he'd invited up there!"

The next talks about what a jokester Ray had been. So easy-going.

One woman recounts a love letter, from when they'd been young. Ray was so sensitive.

The quote she reads from the letter is so unlike the Ray Storm knew he wants to gag. And he'd never found Ray particularly funny. Sarcastic, maybe. Occasionally uncouth. There'd been that one time when he'd programmed McQueen into the simulator. But Ray didn't tend to crack jokes with Storm--thankfully, since Storm's not big on jokes. They're often told by cars who think they're funnier than they are.

Like the car at the mic right now. Not funny. Even so, it sounds like the whole room's in stitches.

None of this was the way he'd known Ray. Ray feels further away than ever.

Storm closes his eyes.

After his eighth consecutive win, Ray had placed a tire on his fender. _No one's ever done that before, kid,_ he'd said. _Not in the entire history of the Piston Cup. This is all you._

Storm had said, _Don't touch me._

The night of his tenth consecutive win, his first Championship, and McQueen's big crash, Ray had said, from a respectful three feet away, _I'm glad you stayed safe._

 _I just won,_ Storm replied. _Like, the whole thing._

Ray shrugged. _I never thought you couldn't._

_But you thought I'd be dumb enough to crash?_

Ray's gaze follows the ambulance out of the stadium gates. _I'm always gonna worry about you, Storm,_ he says.

Storm opens his eyes again. Now there's a late model dirt sprinter at the front of the room. One of Ray's former racers, talking about how high Ray always placed in the chili tailgate cook-off. You know, just casually, because he was one of The Guys. Chili cookoffs and a cold beer after the race. Everyone remembers doing that with Ray, right?

Everyone.

Storm is going to choke on his own exhaust.

Every time a car here opens its mouth, It feels like they're taking Ray from Storm a second time. Every 'remember when,' every wistful chuckle and the wave of knowing glances that follows without fail--the chassis-shaking laughter because of something Ray said, once upon a time, long before Storm ever knew him. Ray's life and times balloons before Storm's eyes and Ray doesn't just drift away like a ghost--he shoots into the stratosphere like a rocket and the loss is sharp and sudden and it leaves a sonic crater in its wake, just like the first time. 

Just like every time between then and now. 

Every memory is a Ray Storm never knew--and probably would never have known, even if Ray lived another hundred years. Maybe that's what hurts the worst. Storm can't imagine knowing anyone the way that all fifty of these freaking cars apparently all knew Ray. Except his sister's piece of garbage neighbor.

Storm's never been closer to anyone in his life than he'd been with Ray. Not even Gale. And yet--

"One word: Hushpuppies!" exclaims a rusty Shelby coupe. The room rocks with knowing guffaws.

Storm's gonna scream.

In the middle of yet another fishing story--this one, about catfish down in the bayou--Storm backs out of the neat rows of countless strangers.

He leaves.


	9. Jackson Storm, IGNTR racer. Number under negotiation.

_Storm's certain Ray knows everything there is to know about him. IGNTR's got Storm's whole life on a USB drive--specs and stats, raw footage, demo reels, license and registration, an app chock-full of live data. Any hour of the day the guys at IGNTR's HQ--guys Storm's never even met--can look up his_ tire pressure _if they really want to. To the nearest fraction of a psi._

_And Storm's not into playing at a disadvantage, so he's never gone into a meeting cold. He knows Ray's name, his resume. He's even skimmed a few of the interviews that Google kicked up. Ray's the kind of guy whose social media presence is one grainy profile pic and one chain letter meme someone had tagged him in in 2014._

_"Who're you supposed to be?" asks Storm, accusatory by default._

_Ray's eyes glint, insulted first, and then triumphant. It's an unexpected transition. Ray's got the look of a car who's already won this fight, and Storm's not used to that._

_"You look like a Gus, so I'm gonna call you Gus. Do you mind?" Storm preempts._

_"You're probably not gonna call me anything," says Ray. "We start that race, it's just you and me on that line. Anything you say's gonna be to me. You start callin' me names and that's a full second wasted. Don't bother."_

_"I've got time to waste, believe me," Storm returns. "Gus."_

_"Yup. I read your file." He doesn't skip a beat. "Have you?"_

_"I _am_ the file," says Storm. "Why would I need to--"_

_"You ever gone fishing?" Ray asks. Then he clarifies, "I ask 'cause that kinda stuff wasn't anywhere in the file."_

_Storm gapes, a lot like a fish. It's totally reflexive, unmeditated, and it only lasts a fraction of a second, but Storm knows Ray sees._

_They end up at a fish store, or whatever those things are called. Storm is required to select a cichlid._

_"Is this some kind of test?" he asks, warily surveying the fish. Maybe he should be selecting for speed and power. He assumes that's the expectation._

_"Do I look like a nutty professor to you?"_

_In the end, Storm chooses a fish native to a lake in Africa that is happiest in hard water over dark sand._

 

\--

 

He'd hated that trip.

 

\--

 

Words can't touch how uncomfortable it had been, idling in that fish store. Having to think about fish. Having to look up "cichlid." And it wasn't even like they'd left the city limits. They hadn't tramped through any bogs or overturned any barges and they didn't have any stupid, charming stories to tell--the kind of stories cars could tell that everyone loved because everyone understood them, everyone shared that connection.

Ray took Storm to a freaking fish store because he didn't think he'd be able to handle catfish noodling down in the bayou and crocodile hushpuppies afterwards and Ray and been right he'd been so freaking right and so they'd just gone to the fish store and he'd hated it and he'd cherished it and it might have been one of the best things to ever happen to him and it used to feel special and now it didn't and also? 

Ray's gone.

 

\--

 

It occurs to Storm that the fish is probably still around, living out its fishy life at the IGNTR training center, waiting for Ray to feed it. 

Stupid.


	10. Jackson Storm, not Ray's family

An hour or so later, Gale finds him parked beside his trailer, waiting to get gone. 

"Why didn't you stay?" she asks. 

Storm hates it when she asks things she already knows the answer to. She's always waiting to see if one day, he'll tell the truth.

"It was boring," Storm replies, which isn't _un_ true. If something's boring, you don't want to hear about it. Storm doesn't want to hear any more of those good 'ol time stories. He's never felt so deficient in his life.

That's a lie.

He's always known.

"Couldn't stand any more of those stupid fishing stories," he says. Not when he will never be a participant in one. Ray's the closest friend he's ever had and Storm still cannot physically imagine ever existing with such ease. Just doing something with someone like that. Ray'd talked about that one barbecue place a thousand times, probably, but that first night with Gale was the first time Storm had ever set eyes on it. They'd gone to a fish _store_. Once Ray'd brought him plate lunch all the way from the Fashion District because Storm hadn't wanted to go. Eaten with him in the training center because that was the only place Storm wanted to be--and even then, Storm hadn't touched his plate because he doesn't like food. Doesn't really see the point.

It's his fault, isn't it.

"I don't like fish," he says.

"They're mourning, too," Gale reminds him. "If you wanted, you could share something with them. Something they never knew about Ray, too--"

"Stop. I hate you," says Storm, because it's the first thing that comes to mind. Gale's making it seem like he's _jealous_. Like he needs to feel like his memories of Ray are the most special, the most privileged. He was the closest. Ray meant the most to him. She's making it sound like he needs to be the best here.

Storm hates her because she's right. She's so right she didn't even need to think about it; because he's that simple. It makes him feel naked and embarrassed and also, she's right.

"I _needed_ him," Storm states. The back of his throat aches. He'd needed him the most.

He doesn't care if Ray'd had sisters or parents or good ol' boys or best freaking friends Storm's never met before. Not when it sounds like they have--each other. Or their memories. Or whatever. Not when they have Ray in a way Storm will never have. Because he was late to the game, or wasn't good enough at it. Because he'll never understand how to be that close to someone. Because now he'll never get that shot. All because Ray up and died.

All because Storm is that exquisitely useless.

It's all his fault.

"Jackson," says Gale, and that's it. Just his name. She's right in front of him and he doesn't know when she got there. But for once, he doesn't back away. He pulses closer, until their bumpers are just touching. She plants a light kiss on the edge of his hood and he watches the condensation of his breath on her lacquered blackness, in and out, in and out.

"Jackson," she says again.

He is empty.

 

\--

 

And he is alone.

 

\--

 

If Storm doesn't race tomorrow, someone else will wear the 20. There's no dearth of other racers. But then Storm won't have anything at all.

"There's a fish at IGNTR HQ," Storm tells Gale. "I want to go see it."

Gale reminds him they're at the Vermont track right now. And Vermont is nowhere near Los Angeles.

"I don't want to do this anymore."

And Gale says, it's okay if he feels that way. No one is going to make him. He just has to say the word. It's meant as a kindness--at least, that's how Gale means it; Storm doesn't know and doesn't care how IGNTR means it--but it feels like nothing at all. It's freefall.

 

\--

 

IGNTR wants him to sign 300 autographs for a Ray Reverham charity auction. By tomorrow morning would be best.

 

\--

 

Everything feels like one long scream.


	11. Danny Swervez, #19 Racer (for now)

Jackson Storm doesn't show up for his qualifying run.

"I'm gonna go find him," says Danny, whose turn on the track is in approximately 70 seconds. 

"You can do whatever you want in a few minutes," Cam barks. "Until then, you're not going anywhere."

"I think we've waited long enough." 

Danny's never seen anyone so much as try to talk to Storm. And no one's breathed Ray's name in weeks, which makes it seem like the world's decided they don't have to anymore. It's old news. All the stuff on TV now just talks about Ray's greatness; they make it sound like the dude died fifty years ago. You know. Honor the legacy. It's not supposed to hurt anymore. Arguably, it never was.

"What if he's not okay?"

"He is."

"Did you ask him?"

"If he is, the 20's not waiting for you. That's not your job. But if you miss qualifying--especially when you're standing right here in the paddock!--that's gonna matter a lot, Danny. Just run your lap. After that, you can do whatever you want. It's just a few more minutes. It's not going to matter."

"Of course it matters. We're racecars. Every thousandth of a second matters."

"Yes! You're a racecar! And racecars need to race."

"Racecars needs to remember they're _cars_. That's what should be coming in first, every day!"

"They'll send you back to Mexico," Cam warns him.

"Whatever. Ain't nothing wrong with Mexico," Danny replies. "Not sure why people keep talking like there is."

"That's not how I meant it and you know it. This is your future on a platter, Swervez. Don't get mixed up in the 20's drama."

"What if it were the 24? Or someone else? You're friends with that 66 pickup, aren't you?" says Danny. "Would it be any different if it weren't Storm?"

Danny doesn't think it would be. This isn't about Storm, or any of his drama. Maybe the dude's burned his bridges but certain thing's just ain't your fault. Danny's pretty chill with a lot of the guys, but if Cam died or something, he knows cars wouldn't exactly be lining up to shower him with sympathy. Not the real kind--just this showboaty, awkward stuff. Because people in this country get so dumb around death; Danny doesn't understand it. Keep pretending like it doesn't happen, hasn't ever happened. They make it sound like Reverham won the Piston Cup, not that he died. It's like they can't stomach the idea that something bad happened. Not to one of their own.

"You stay out of this," Cam snaps. Danny backs up to see who he's talking to. It's Lightning McQueen.

McQueen seems surprised to have been addressed. "Out of what?" he asks.

Danny glances at McQueen. He locks eyes with Cam. Then he looks up at the leaderboard. He's up.

Danny arcs tightly around McQueen and races out of the paddocks, toward the infield backlot. Up on the board, his number blinks once, twice, and switches to number 13. According to the official record, Danny Swervez did not show up for qualifying. 

Behind him, Danny hears Cam shout, "This is your bad influence, isn't it?!"

McQueen responds, "I didn't do anything!" 

 

\--

 

"Didn't want to add another pole to your collection?" asks Danny, when he finds Storm. It wasn't hard. Anyone probably could have, if they'd tried. No one had.

"Think of it as a freebie," says Storm.

"Missed my shot, I guess," says Danny. "Wanted to look for you instead."

"Then you're an idiot."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay. I thought that might be more important."

"If I were going to drive off a bridge, I would have done that weeks ago. You're too slow."

"Don't guilt-trip me, man."

Storm quirks an eyebrow. He seems surprised guilt would have factored into the equation. "We're not friends. That's not your job," he says.

"Yeah, we're not. And friends don't have _jobs._ But you and me--we race together. Personally, I think that should make it our job. Otherwise what's the point of any of this?"

"No one on the planet has ever bothered to make the Piston Cup just so they could make friends."

"Yeah, sure. But I didn't travel four thousand miles just to not. Do you have any idea how much money my brother's gonna be making after he finishes his Maestrías at UNAM? My sister's a big-time actress back in México, bro. I came here for more than all that noise. If I just wanted that, I could've got it back home."

"Well, don't put the brakes on your sainthood just for me. Move it along." Storm drives straight for him, forcing Danny to reverse out of the way.

"See you at the back of the field, Storm," calls Danny, without turning to face Storm's tail. He's not really sure what he expected. A thank you? A heart-to-heart? Not really. He'd expected pretty much this, which was pretty much nothing. It's gonna sound really stupid if he needs to explain to his mother that this is what he got fired for.

But this, Danny knows he needed to do.

He says, "Hang in there, man."

For a fraction of a second, he hears Storm hesitate.

 

\--

 

Danny doesn't bother going back to the paddocks. Cam's probably off blowing a gasket somewhere. There's no point in seeing how the rest of qualifying shakes out, so Danny heads back to his trailer.

Lightning McQueen is waiting for him. Usually, Lighting McQueen looks like he's always exactly where he's supposed to be. (Even when, according to Cam, he's not.) Because that's Lightning McQueen's whole thing, isn't it? He's always exactly where he thinks he's supposed to be, doing exactly what he thinks he's supposed to be doing. That's his whole vibe.

He doesn't look like that now. He looks like he half-expects Danny to run him out of the parking lot with a shotgun. It's possible that's what Cam had threatened. 

"Yo," says Danny.

"Hi," says McQueen.

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Danny runs through several possible rejoinders in his head. _You want an autograph, McQueen? Lost again, McQueen? Still not Bobby Swift, McQueen._

"I'm, uh, gonna go inside now," says Danny.

"Wait. What you did just now--" McQueen blurts out. "I think we should've done that a long time ago. All of us."

Danny snorts. He hadn't really done anything, "So, did I start a revolution? Are we all doing whatever 'I just did'?"

McQueen looks uncomfortable. "Well, no."

"This whole operation's whack, you know. A multi-billion dollar industry, and we can't figure out how to mourn a guy?"

"Yeah, I know."

"It's like it's not even allowed."

"I know."

It sounds weird, coming from someone Danny thinks of as being so much a part of 'that operation.' He's Lightning McQueen, after all, and the name's basically synonymous with "Piston Cup." Sure, maybe he's got a little rebel in him--Danny's been interviewed about McQueen's lovable unconventionality enough times to have been annoyed by it--but McQueen's still got seven of the darn things. As far as Danny's concerned, all of this is as much McQueen's bureaucratic mess as any suits'. But McQueen's disillusion seems sincere enough. 

"So do something about it," says Danny.

"How?" McQueen asks.

Danny blinks. "Man, I'm not your teacher. I just got here, remember? There's a chance I won't even be there next week."

McQueen blinks back, as though he'd somehow forgotten that he was not the rookie in this conversation.

"Right," McQueen says, after a moment. He's regained his composure, left behind his wide-eyed look. He seems more like the Lightning McQueen Danny's used to--the grimly serious one who'd finished just before or just behind him for half a season last year. Seven-time champion, sponsors' darling, seasoned professional Lightning McQueen.

"I don't know what I'm doing, either," Danny confesses. All he'd done was play a little hide and seek and piss off his crew chief.

"I think you do," says McQueen. "Keep doing it."

It's probably meant as a compliment, but McQueen's focus is so intense when he says it it's the first time Danny's ever been intimidated by him. It's what McQueen must look like when he really wants something--when he wants to make a thing _happen_. 

Danny's never seen that before. Not even on the track.


	12. Clara Banking, RSN Legal Division (Intern)

"I think Lightning McQueen is suing us," says Clara, RSN's newest intern, as she flips through the mail. Her voice is small.

"Nah, he's just threatening to," says Breezy. (Or at least, that's how he says it. Clara maintains that his employee badge says BR-Z. It's completely natural she'd mispronounce that!)

"Seriously? McQueen? What for?" asks Clara's boss, Rick Swaybar, Esquire.

"Classic Carrera-speak," Breezy replies. "I knew her back at school. This is what she'd always do in hypos, too. Basically, they just want to talk. They don't like the spin we're putting on the whole Reverham thing. The Hudson stuff, probably."

"But it's not even slander. We're saying good things," Clara objects, and immediately regrets it. Whenever Breezy regards her, his expressions always make her feel stupid. 

"Honey," says Breezy. "We're RSN Legal. We're not saying anything."

"McQueen, huh?" Swaybar chuffs. When he sees Clara staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning, he shrugs. "Just not who I would've expected. He doesn't usually touch this kind of thing. Not sure it's ever occurred to him before that he could."

 

\--

 

"Gosh, is it just me, or did this Reverham stuff get super heavy? Like it was sad, and then it was kind of whatever. But they just called everyone in and told us about like, the phone numbers for grief counselors and stuff," one of Clara's cohort the next day, as she inspects the detailing she'd just had done on her rims. She's a legal observer for the Piston Cup. Today, she and Clara are sipping Dinoco frappucchinos in Decatur.

"I guess they just want to make sure," Clara says quietly. She dips her lip into her foam, the way she likes to.

"Isn't it a little late for that? What changed?"

Clara sips her foam noncommittally. "Better late than never, I guess."

There's some extended edition of a morning talk show on the cafe's TV. It was supposed to be a re-run of the Reverham retrospective, but RSN pulled it. She knows they're in new negotiations with the family--exploring the possibility of shooting a new one. How it'd be different, Clara's not sure, but she'd helped Breezy and Swaybar approve the language of RSN's invitation. But apparently in the old one, they hadn't mentioned when it was that Ray had died. It's possible they hadn't mentioned that he'd died at all.

"Never done this before," says Breezy. "Pay attention, Clare. You could be making history right now!"

Clara doesn't suppose she is, but it's her birthday the next weekend, and her boyfriend bought them both VIP passes to the race, so she keeps thinking about it. Basically, this means Clara gets to wander the pits alone--bored, awkward, and lonely--while her boyfriend runs around getting rare collectibles signed so he can fence it all to fund _next_ year's VIP tickets. 

Story of their relationship, honestly. But they do have good seats, so she supposes she can't complain too much. According to her boyfriend, she shouldn't be complaining at all.

Ramirez is in the middle of a pre-race autograph session, and most of the crowd is huddled over there. Clara's more of a Rodcap girl, so she takes the opportunity to scan the pits without the extra traffic. The 19's crew chief is talking to Jackson Storm, for some reason--Cam Shaftley, that's his name. He's not known for being a big personality, so Clara doesn't know much about him, but it seems a little weird. She can't imagine he and Storm are friends.

She keeps far enough so as not to eavesdrop, but it seems mostly like Cam telling jokes and Storm suffering them. Eventually, Cam leaves, and exchanges a few bashful words with Danny afterwards. Their expressions are tender, like a newly healing wound. A reconciliation of sorts, perhaps.

The 24 car approaches Storm next. Generally the 24's soundbites tend to be short and bright, but with Storm he stays a while.

Half an hour later, Clara's waiting for her boyfriend in the stands. He left his binoculars with her, so she props them on her hood and looks down on Jackson Storm's pit stall. Just out of curiosity. His crew chief station's still empty, and there aren't flowers this week, but Cruz Ramirez is talking to Storm now, too.

Storm doesn't look grateful, necessarily, but he's clearly listening to her. He doesn't seem to say much back, and cuts her off abruptly, but Ramirez doesn't look mad about it.

"I thought you were into Rodcap," says her boyfriend, as he squeals into his seat. His trunk's being held closed with a bungee cord, visibly full of shopping bags. He slaps her rear bumper when he pulls up, in the way that she hates, and that he knows she hates. "Don't tell me my competition's Jackson Storm now! I can't compete with those emo, angsty guys! Man, I wish I'd gotten so much Reverham stuff autographed before--"

"Can you maybe shut up?" asks Clara. She's never said something like that to her boyfriend, ever. "We're in the middle of a minute of silence. Maybe make use of that."

"But I didn't even know him. I'm not sad." He sounds more defensive than confused.

Clara holds her ground. "Then think about the cars who are."


	13. Jackson Storm

_"I hate it when he's bossy," Storm grumbles, after four hours of Ray drilling him hard on three-corner short tracks. He pokes at the mound of rice on his plate and puts something called lau lau in his mouth, chews reluctantly._

_"Is he making you eat that?" Gale asks. "I mean, Lee's_ is _good stuff, but--"_

_"He said I didn't have to if I didn't like it." And Storm had hated that, too. What's he supposed to do with that?_

_"So do you like it?"_

_"No."_

_After that, Ray never brings plate lunch again, just like he never talks about fish again. Just like he never parked too close again, after that first time Storm had jumped away, told him to stay back. Ray was always pushing, but he never forced. Every week Storm spent with him was a series of all-new nightmares, but Ray never made them linger if Storm didn't want them to. He'd only ever asked that Storm give them all a shot--or at least a staredown. This made Storm glad and guilty and annoyed and anxious and sometimes even happy._

_If Storm had ever wanted to go fishing again, all he would have had to do was ask. But the thing is, Storm didn't want. He didn't want any of that noise._

_Or at least, he hadn't thought he did._

 

\--

 

 _Were you disappointed?_ Storm wants to ask Ray. He's pretty sure he knows the answer.

Storm knows that pretty much anyone normal would rather be at a wedding, or up at a cabin, or cracking open beers on a dirt track, than sitting in a dark room with someone who doesn't even like your barbecue. The choice is a no-brainer.

Except for all the days Ray had chosen otherwise.

But maybe it'd be worse if Ray hadn't been disappointed in him. Because that would mean Ray thought that this was the best Storm could do. That this was as good as he was ever going to get. He was always going to be this empty, alien, alone.

 

\--

 

"Wanna go fishing?" Ray asks, in Storm's dreams.

Storm still says no.

 

\--

 

He wakes up cold.

 

\--

 

"What do you want?" Storm asks Danny, who'd yo'd at him on the way to his own pit stall.

"Just tryin' to make a change. Saying hi," says Danny.

"I think change has done enough damage," Storm replies tersely.

"Nah, man, I hear you. I do."


	14. Lightning McQueen, free agent

"They're not gonna be like Mr. Tex in there," says Cruz, staring up at the formidable building. Then he feels her gaze drop, until she's staring at Lightning staring up at the formidable building. Compared to skyscrapers, they both seem very small. 

"But I'm sure you'll do great! Miss Sally just asked me to remind you to be careful," Cruz adds encouragingly.

"I'm actually good at things sometimes, you know," says Lightning, without taking his eyes off the building. The logo looks heavy and sharp, ready to fall on unsuspecting hoods like a guillotine. "Who told you I'm not good at negotiating a contract?"

"Um. Miss Sally did," says Cruz.

"What?!"

"Oh, my bad. She said you're super great at everything. The greatest! You're definitely not going to be eaten alive by this gigantic, pointy building and the evil lurking within it."

"Hey, they're the ones who called me back. They probably disarmed all the booby traps." Lightning winks at her. Then he asks, more seriously, "You sure you're okay with this?"

"Absolutely," says Cruz. "To the future, right?"

"To the future," Lightning agrees. With that, he edges forward, and the building's front doors sweep open, smooth and quiet. The lobby is empty, so he makes his way to the elevator. Cruz waves at him from outside until the elevator doors clamp shut and Lightning shoots upward to the twentieth floor.

 

\--

 

_She corners him a few days after the race, when his defenses are down and he's not expecting the ambush._

_"It's not an ambush," Cruz insists. "I know I'm your racer right now, but for five days, I was your trainer. And as your former trainer, I gotta say: I never would have let you get away with this!"_

_"Wait, what did I do?" Lightning asks. He's at least 95% sure he hasn't committed any crimes this week._

_"You're not okay," says Cruz. She doesn't bother meeting him at his train of thought. "You told me you were fine, but you're not."_

_Lightning doesn't bother denying it. "Someone just died. Why would I be? You're not."_

_"But it's something else, too, isn't it," says Cruz. She's subdued, which for Cruz means serious business. "Do you want to talk about it?"_

_'Something else' is probably the understatement of the century. 'Something else' is hearing Doc's name all over the track again, all over the radio, and slamming headlong into the past. It's like he can't exist in the here and now without also existing in 2009. And 2009 still feels just as raw. He thought he'd gotten past that. He's not sure how self-involved you have to be to watch something bad happen to someone else, and then immediately get lost thinking about stuff that happened to you instead._

_When he'd told this to Sally, she'd said, "That's called empathy, Stickers." And when he'd disagreed, told her no--not like this, not this way, she'd said, "And that's called trauma." Lightning doesn't really believe her, though. Trauma doesn't sound like his kind of thing._

_Not that what's on TV sounds like him either. It's not like it's a narrative he hasn't heard before; Lightning just feels like he's not hearing it the same way anymore._

_The narrative goes like this: Doc's legacy having been so sacred no one could touch it. Doc's presence having been so powerful no one else could ever occupy that space, up there on the crew chief stand. Look at Lightning McQueen: Racing without a crew chief again! But this time it's different! What a champ!_

_Lightning had been happy to believe that then. (Desperate to believe it, even.) If the Piston Cup says Doc's memory is powerful, it's not like Lightning's gonna fight them on that. It's true that Doc's with him in ways that he will always be._

_But Doc's also still dead. And racing without him--without anyone--had not been a choice._

_The reality was, no one had applied to take Doc's place--who'd be so presumptive? Who'd dare overstep? And so Lightning simply hadn't said anything. He'd just gone with it. Otherwise, what would he have said? That Doc's memory wasn't enough for him?_

_Sure, he'd raced without a crew chief, like all the headlines said. But it wasn't that different than the first time, and it didn't make him feel like a champ. Maybe he _raced_ different the second time around. Still felt like garbage, though._

_Now, with Storm, they're trying to make it a trend._ Oh, do what Lightning McQueen did! That's how champions are made. Hands-off adulation and harrowing loneliness. __

_There's been murmurings about maybe if Storm hadn't burnt his bridges, they'd all be quicker to offer support. And sure--Lightning figures if Storm weren't Storm, maybe he'd have closer friends. Maybe he'd have a Cal, and a Bobby, and a Radiator Springs. But this, Lightning knows first-hand: The Cup still wouldn't have treated Storm any different. Lightning's spent a decade eager to take responsibility for his past transgressions. He figures one day, Storm will be, too. But when Doc had died, Lightning had already been well-liked. Loved, even. He'd still had to go it alone, wading through empty gestures and sidelong expressions of sympathy._

_In racing, legacies are honored, but death is never mourned. That'd be too real, too sad. Too hard. And that's not what the Piston Cup is about._

_Lightning's beginning to realize that there are ways that the sport itself is failing them. There are ways the way this sport is run is failing_ all _of them. The idea leaves a bad taste in Lightning's mouth._

 

\--

 

"Doc--" starts Lightning.

"Oh, great man," says the Cup.

"Yeah, but--"

"The best!"

"But I can't-- I don't--"

"Shush, smile, there are cameras," says the Cup.

"Or don't," says a tabloid.

"Or do," says RSN. "We're honoring the Hudson Hornet with a special retrospective today. Isn't that great?"

"It is," Lightning agrees. "But--"

"No one can ever replace him. That's what we said last night. Great shot of the empty stand. Don't you agree? We figured that'd really play on camera. Real powerful stuff."

"Yes, but--"

"Perseverance! Courage in the face of tragedy! That's the theme of the season, right?"

"I mean, I guess that's the goal…"

"You're fine, right?" asks the Cup.

"No!" Lightning shouts. He shoots a glance at the tabloid. "I mean, yes."

"You're good to go? Alone? Because I mean, we've already written the script. You can roll with that, right?" 

"Yes," Lightning says grimly.

"What are you going to tell Storm?"

"What do you mean?" Lightning asks. It's 2009. It's 2017. Lightning doesn't know anymore.

"You're digging his grave tonight, too," says the Cup. "Are you made of steel or not, McQueen? _Change_ me."

 

\--

 

"Have you talked to Danny at all?" Lightning asks Cruz.

The look she gives him is not without concern. She's clearly been waiting for him to say something for a while, and she clearly hadn't expected it to be about Danny.

"Um, not about you. Are you okay?"

"No. I don't know. Ask Sally. But whatever. The point is," Lightning doesn't remember what Cruz originally asked him about, so he just launches forward. "Danny thinks we're all doing Ray wrong. Storm, too. --I mean, the Cup. That's the 'we'. And we--"

Cruz takes a moment to try and parse his jumble. Then she says, "You mean, not doing anything? Nothing real? I _know._ That's what I've been trying to fix!"

Lightning smiles. Of course she is. That's Cruz.

"So what are we going to do about it?" Cruz asks.

"That's something I wanted to run by you, actually. I've already sent a couple emails. I've been thinking that maybe--"

 

\--

 

Almost immediately after he'd stepped up as Cruz's crew chief that first time, the press had started asking him about growing the sport. What was he going to do for the sport now? How was he going to grow it? What were his long-term strategies? Does he see his sponsorship loyalty as a disadvantage now that it's time to grow the sport? How does he plan to tap his network? What's he going to do for the sport? You know--the sport. What's he going to do for it?

At the time, Lightning hadn't had a ready answer. This seemed like a question for cars like The King, not him. Six months ago, Lightning McQueen had just been a racecar, racing. No one had heard of Jackson Storm. Racing was the thing Lightning did, not something he-- _conceptualized._ He'd never had a long-term strategy in his life. He felt like he hadn't had the time yet to think of one.

He didn't even know what 'grow the sport' was supposed to mean. Hadn't the Next-Gens done that? Bringing in IGNTR, Combustr, Blinkr. The vowels might not have made it into racing, but the money sure had. Besides, answering questions about 'growth' sounded a whole lot like selling mudflaps.

So he'd said, "Well, I raced for it." He'd already given it everything he had and then some. For better or worse.

But maybe the Piston Cup had places to grow that weren't just 'up.'

There's something that he needs to do.

 

\--

 

Way up on the twentieth floor, in Fancy Lobby #2 of Fancy Skyscraper #387, there's a gigantic fishtank with a solitary fish inside it. 

"Welcome to IGNTR," greets the receptionist.


	15. Jackson Storm, #20 Racer

Danny 'yo's at him again. He's been doing it every week.

"Remember when Ray bought a snack from that food truck?" Gale says, laughing to herself. She's facing a food truck that purports to be the Best Texas Barbecue From Oklahoma. "He left them the longest 1-star Yelp review I've ever seen!"

Storm glances at his crew chief box, then down at the ground again. He doesn't say anything.

"Sorry," Gale says quickly. "I didn't mean to--"

It's the Fourth of July. Everyone's acting more festive than usual. It's a big race. Everyone's happy about that. Ray's been dead for four months.

"Do whatever you want," says Storm. "And what do you want?" he asks, of a girl with a VIP pass hanging from her left mirror.

"Oh. My name's Clara," says Clara. "I just wanted to tell you hi."

"Okay," says Storm.

Clara keeps hanging around. Storm assumes a guard will usher her off to wherever she came from in due time.

Storm scans the team adjacent to them. Of course it's Dinoco again. And for the Fourth of July race, the 51's sporting a new crew chief. That Cal Weathers guy, with flashy metallic paint and gold decals to match his racer. Parked on the crew chief podium like that, he looks like an overgrown tinsel bow. 

According to the official announcement, it's a test run for next season, as McQueen has recently announced his plans to step down as the 51's crew chief. Probably thinks he has better things to be doing, or whatever. Like restarting his oh-so-successful racing career. Storm rolls his eyes. 

But maybe McQueen's planning to backseat drive this Cal guy's debut race, because he still shows up. The sound of that engine is unmistakable. 

Then Storm hears McQueen call out his name from behind him. What Storm sees when he turns is an honest-to-god nightmare.

It's Lightning McQueen in a dark matte wrap, IGNTR emblazoned across his hood. Blue lightning down his sides, metallic storm clouds billowing out behind it.

No. Nonono.

"Blue's not your color. Why would you think black was?" is Storm's immediate response.

"Easy," says McQueen, pulsing forward slightly. "I'm just your crew chief for today. Provisionary contract."

"There's no way this is legal. Conflict of interest," objects Storm. His dread is palpable. IGNTR's pulled some crap with him before, but this is next-level.

McQueen shrugs. "IGNTR signed me. They seemed fine with it."

"You're going to sabotage me."

"If I do, you know who my lawyer is," McQueen offers. "But whatever happens in this race, I can tell you right now I'm here to win. Which means I'm here to help _you_ win. Right, Cruz?"

Cruz grins at him, expression fierce. "And I'm ready to beat you, old man! Right, Cal?"

"I'm always ready to beat Lightning!" Cal replies. "And I wouldn't mind beating _the_ Jackson Storm."

Storm slits his eyes. Could anything possibly be more obnoxious? It's like they take pleasure in shoving their friendship in everyone else's face.

Everything happens altogether too quickly after that, to the blaring pomp and circumstance of jet planes making shapes in the air and streamers and confetti in the air. Air horns, singing, Fourth of July spectacle and patriotism. Suddenly McQueen's taking up space in Storm's pit stall and not paying nearly enough attention to his darling Cruz. Instead he says, voice lowered conspiratorially, "Parallel straightaways--it's a good track for you. You can beat her on pure speed." 

He acts as though his statement were a rarified nugget of wisdom. Of course Storm can outpace her, and of course it's his kind of track. Then again, it's probably the closest McQueen's ever gotten to badmouthing his golden costume girl. McQueen's probably pretty proud of himself for that--the finishing touch on his own game of dress up. Because that's what all of this is to him, isn't it. A game.

But none of this is a game. It's a coup. As McQueen lines up to ascend the crew chief podium--Ray's podium--Storm hisses, "You don't belong up there."

McQueen jolts. 

And for the first time today, McQueen regards him seriously. Like this isn't all some kind of brutal cosmic joke. He says, quiet, "I know."

Except of course McQueen doesn't know. No one would have dared upsetting lovable, impressionable Lightning McQueen, and no one would have dared disrespect the Hudson Hornet like this. But what did anyone care about Ray Reverham, anyway. What did anyone know? ( _More than Storm does,_ a voice whispers at the back of his head. _They know more than you will ever know._ ) 

"I know I'm not Ray," McQueen admits. "I'm not trying to be. But your team doesn't want you to be alone. None of the rest of us do, either. Even if we're not the best at showing it sometimes."

"This isn't showing it," says Storm.

"Well. You're not alone. That's the main point," McQueen replies, visibly irked but also visibly 'trying not to be.' 

"Yeah, I'm not alone. I'm inundated."

This isn't going to work.

"You know, I wouldn't have minded. If someone had gone up there and helped me after Doc died. Talked to me. Heck, just gone up and sat there and freaking done nothing at all. I'd have pissed and moaned about it, probably; I'd have sounded exactly like you. But no one did. _No one_ ," McQueen informs him, in a sudden, unexpected deluge. His engine sounds like it's ready to rip through space. "No one wanted to mess up, or overstep. Or admit that something might be wrong. So no one did anything." 

McQueen's eyes snap up and he glares the full 360 degrees of the stadium. 

"This place, everyone who's a part of this: They have no idea how to deal with death and it's been too many stupid years for them to still be bad at it. They--we--should be doing you better, and we're not. So I'm angry, and I'm-- sorry, I guess."

He's sorry, and he's shaking, and Storm can see it all. And McQueen doesn't care if Storm sees him rattled or not. 

"And yeah," McQueen continues. "This is gonna suck. And you're gonna hate me, and you're gonna resent every minute I'm up here not being Ray. But bottom line? We're all still here for you. We're the cars who can be. You're not alone, Storm."

_You are not alone._

"I better be alone in that winner's circle. Give me any bush league advice, and I'm turning my radio off," is Storm's only reply.

_You are not alone._

As he settles into his starting position and he and the rest of the field take their laps waiting for that green to drop, however, Storm scans the crowd. The media boxes. All the prim pit boxes lined with pitties on high alert. All the racers around him. McQueen's right. None of these guys has any idea how to handle death. Himself included. But none of them had even tried; they didn't have to. 

Storm doesn't have that choice.

The radio stays silent. 

Maybe McQueen bailed after all. McQueen's already delivered his long speech. Maybe that's as far as he'd thought this through. It's not like it'd be all that surprising if he bailed. It's what cars do.

"Green flag," tests Storm, when the flag drops and he surges forward and McQueen still hasn't said anything. 

"Yeah. I figured you already knew what the flag meant," McQueen replies, radio static coughing to life. Then nothing again.

Some crew chief.

After a lap, however, McQueen says, "Let me know how that middle groove feels. Danny's looking pretty fast running the bottom."

McQueen's right. The bottom groove is better.

The entire race, McQueen doesn't say much. Storm knows that's not his usual style--he and Costume Girl take the 'chatter' part of 'radio chatter' literally. With Storm, McQueen makes sure anything he says is worth it.

"Kinda quiet, McQueen. First day jitters?" says Storm, on Lap 34.

"I can give you more direction if you want it," McQueen replies. It doesn't even sound sarcastic this time--which, Storm admits, is disappointing.

He's been waiting for McQueen to launch into some long sob story about why Storm's his charity case today. Maybe during the 100th lap lull. He's sure McQueen's got one, all gooey and touchy-feely and ready for its red carpet. It had taken him all of 30 seconds to mention Doc Hudson 50 laps ago; surely it's only a matter of time before the encore. But then it's 75 laps ago. 100. 150. McQueen doesn't say a thing, outside of commenting on Storm's tire strategy.

By Lap 200, Storm stops thinking about the travesty happening in his pit stall. McQueen's just information. Just a voice on the other end. 

It's nice.

"Chase thinks he's got a run on the top. Shut him down," says McQueen.

Storm does.

"You've got a three-second cushion behind you now."

Storm takes the opportunity to go flat out. A lead like that, and you don't have to think about anything. Just charge towards the bumpers in front of you, go fast enough to terrify the lapped cars out of your way. Once upon a time, Storm got tapped for his strategy, not his speed--though of course he'd had that, too--but the only thing he wants right now is the surge of air over his body as he cuts through it, hugging asphalt and riding the force of the curve. Noise, smell, thought--it all goes away. Nothing matters.

 

\--

 

_"That feeling--that's mastery," Ray tells him, the day Storm set his 214 record._

_"That isn't." Storm gestures towards the fishing rods Ray's been trying to untangle while he watched. He hasn't been successful._

_"Fun, though," says Ray. "Gotta do stuff that keeps you hungry. You got any Wednesday plans?"_

_"Yes," Storm says._

_Of course he doesn't, and Ray knows it._

_"Too bad! Maybe next time." Ray slides the rods into his truckbed._

 

\--

 

"10-4," Storm tells Ray. No, wait. Not Ray. "What did you just say?"

"Didn't you just 10-4 me?" McQueen replies. "Oh, never mind. I said--"

"I heard you. You just sounded like someone else."

"That's 'cause I learned it from him," says McQueen. He sounds like he's about to say more, but he stops himself. That's all that needs to be said.

Storm's fresher tires carry him smoothly past Ramirez.

"Do you feel like a mutineer?" Storm asks.

"I'm on _your_ team," McQueen replies. "I was serious about that, Storm."

"Yeah. For a day."

"I'll stay as long as you want me to. Tell me to go, and I will."

"I already told you to."

"You actually didn't," McQueen points out.

Storm doesn't want McQueen up there. Doesn't want him in his ear. But he also doesn't want McQueen to leave.

Storm races until he can't feel anything but himself and the wind.

Danny Swervez still crosses the finish line first. Storm's second, but it's not much of a fight. Danny'd held his lead solid for the last three laps; it's his win through and through. Ramirez is third, and McQueen forgets to resist cheering.

Storm stares at Danny's back bumper. He might be okay with this.

"Do I have to congratulate him?" Storm asks. He hears McQueen inhale sharply over the radio.

What Storm wants, more than anything right now, is a reason to keep hating Lightning McQueen. He wants McQueen to say something that will light a fire in him, remind him that McQueen is useless and he is the enemy so that that, at least, can stay the same. He wants McQueen to say something stupid, and pushy, and overly idealistic. He's been waiting all this time.

"You don't have to," McQueen says instead. "You never have to, really. Most racers won't." 

Storm doesn't reply back, and doesn't bother returning to pit row to reconvene with his 'team.' He's done with McQueen.

But he runs up beside Danny, who's just finishing his victory lap, checkered flag flying from his back window.

He takes a deep breath.

 

\--

 

"Hey," Storm says. Danny's eyes widen. 

Storm asks, "Do you know how to fish?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dedicated to BV, 1961-2016_


End file.
